When I prepare to write a Substack post, I ask myself what feels true in the moment. I do this as a yoga teacher as well, picking a theme, some guiding principles, maybe a particular chakra to build the practice around based on what is present for me that week. Not every teacher prepares this way, and I’m not saying this method is objectively best, but it allows me to show up authentically and flexibly to meet students’ needs.
Maybe it’s because I’m more confident as a yoga teacher, but I do still have to gently wave off the naysayers in my head every time I pick a topic and start writing. These naysayers are well-intentioned ego preservers. They erect careful stanchions around the little poetry garden in my heart, convinced that should anyone tread on a trailing vine or delicate bud the whole operation would be shot to hell, so they might as well stand guard and say, “Thank you for visiting. The gardens are closed, but please take this perfectly-curated visitor’s guide, magically tailored to meet your bespoke needs.”
I’m proud that I do send the naysayers off, packing their lunches and smiling, “Thanks for taking such good care of me. Here’s a bus ticket for a nice place to visit; take your time out there.”
The moment they’re out of earshot, I throw open the gates and send tickets to the people I love. Sunflowers grow taller. Ferns extend their supple limbs. “The naysayers were wrong!” I delight. And for the most part that’s true. There are those who stumble in once and pad through quietly, pausing at reflecting pools; those who return, friend in tow; those who bring stools and read to tiny shoots, determined to help them grow.
Sometimes forgotten tickets go unused, invitees are busy or uninterested (or allergic?), flowers wilt. I mourn these beauties, limp and browning, yet even as I clip their sagging heads, another wing of the garden unfurls — a little more wild, a little more brambly, a little more raw and beautiful.
This week, when I ask what feels true, I want to share a bite of writing that will linger on my tongue all day, like garlic (or mint, take your pick), flavoring everything else that comes in. Something I want to sample again and again, that may not please anyone but me. And if that is so, I wait untethered for untamed grasses and ivies that will join my little garden.
Read on below for a very short, delicious note.
I’ve been savoring Mary Oliver’s Upstream recently, reading a few pages on Sunday mornings, tasting the whimsy and brine of each word from the seat of my armchair. I wondered, what can I describe with the violent poetry Mary Oliver uses to describe fish?
“…toothy, terrible, lashed by hunger. The fish they are after, a blood-smeared cloud, are driven sometimes in their search for escape onto the very sand. Porgies, perhaps. With chunks missing from their bodies. Half bodies, still leaping.”1
Half bodies. Wow. That one stuck with me.
It’s wildfire season in the PNW, and I’ve had smoke on my mind, most recently while working on a trail crew up in the North Cascades. I wondered, what would it sound like to apply even a touch of Oliver’s organic ferocity to this scene?
Is it the fluorescent sun, ghastly in its hazy inebriation, choked by fumes that raze far below? Clouds insidious not in what they are but in what they obscure, whole ranges rubbed blunt with smoke’s noxious eraser? Or perhaps it is dappled light, an unnatural orange, stinging eyes and backs of throats in broad assault.
Oliver, Mary. 2019. Upstream: Selected Essays. Penguin. (37)
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